Gemotions

The patent application sat on the kitchen table, gathering dust alongside a half-eaten bag of chips. Bartholomew sighed, the sound a low rumble that vibrated his chest. He really should check the mail. He really should finish that prototype. He really should... well, he could think about it later. The couch, ah, the couch beckoned with promises of complete and utter stillness. His eyelids felt heavy, like lead weights.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, the movement slow and deliberate. Across the room, the television hummed with the endless drone of daytime programming. The remote was just out of reach, a mere few feet away. But those few feet seemed an insurmountable distance.

A fly buzzed past his ear. Bartholomew didn't even flinch.